Haunted: A SnapeHermione Fiction
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Years after The Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione visits The Shrieking Shack. Severus Snape remains there as a ghost. Though given a chance to come back and live, he chose not to, finding he had nothing worth coming back to. Will Snape change his mind after coming home with Hermione? Will he find something of worth in her?
1. The Shrieking Shack

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Snape/Hermione

FOR: Nef :)

Prompt: Haunted

Haunted: Part 1

Hermione wrapped her scarf more tightly around her. It was October but it was freezing, the chill wind nipping at the exposed tip of her nose, and her rosy cheeks. Strands of her thick and unruly hair lifted with the wind, which seemed to howl. That lonesome, eerie, howl was just fitting for Halloween night.

Hermione gave a sigh which came out from between her strawberry lips in a small puff of vapor. It was that cold as she walked across Hogwarts grounds.

In the distance was the leaning building that was now her destination. Many memories—some of them very hard ones—were kept within the walls of The Shrieking Shack. She knew now that The Shack was not really haunted as Hogsmeade folks and Hogwarts students had been lead to believe. The screams they had once attributed to ghouls and lost souls had been the terrible yowls of pain of a werewolf transformation.

Even still it held a very real haunting quality to Hermione.

Behind the shack the black night sky hung like a sheet of velvet. There was not a cloud in the sky and stars winked like cold eyes that could see through her layers of clothes, through her being, and into darker, warring, places within her.

Hermione was older now and feelings that had been stirred as a teenager, and driven by the chaotic, perilous times the Wizarding World had faced during the Second War, had changed. Since then things that had seemed perfect back then had twisted and broken. That once right and passionate love and longing had dwindled like the flame of a candle nearing the end of its wick. Living with Ron was hardly tolerable these days, but Hermione felt too guilty to walk away. She had made promises to Ron and they had been bonded with deep magic in a traditional magical wedding. Beneath her hand knitted gloves was the ring Ron had given her. It was laced with deep magic, and bound to his.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tightly, warding off her tears. She would battle through this as she had through everything else her life had thrown at her. Perhaps…perhaps it would get better. Ron wanted children and Hermione had yet to produce them. She joked that she was not blessed with the Weasley fertility, but that in time, there would be a little Ron or Hermione running around their home. Hermione was torn on the idea of children. She wanted them yes, but she wasn't sure if she wanted them with Ron. When she laid down to sleep at night it sometimes blew her mind how oblivious he was to the way she felt. To Ron the two of them were still very much in love.

Hermione took a deep breath, and plodded on towards The Shrieking Shack. She had just been so desperate for advice, and who else could she have turned to? She couldn't very well have asked her own parents, Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, or Harry. So at last Hermione had sent a much debated upon owl to her former Head of House and the current Headmistress of Hogwarts: Minerva McGonagall. Hermione needed a visit, and advice from someone she trusted. Headmistress McGonagall had sent Hermione an owl in return, inviting her to the Halloween Feast, and after they would retire to Minerva's office for a chat.

Hermione was thankful for the lengthy conversations she had held with Minerva after the dinner. Tissues had been needed, and many pearls of wisdom were imparted, but Hermione felt that something was still missing. She knew more strongly than before that she needed to let go of Ron, and move on with her life, but she did not have it in her yet to do so.

Not wanting to go home yet, Hermione had left the castle and taken a stroll around the grounds. It had just been so long since she had been here, and something in Hermione wanted to connect back to the throbbing intensity of those times when life, and future, had hung equally in the balance. Hermione had felt so alive then. Now she just felt as if she were slowly hollowing out; she was gradually becoming a shell.

Hermione approached the Whomping Willow. She watched the branches sway. If she got closer, it would begin to swat at her as if she were a fly buzzing pestily around it, and sometimes Hermione felt as small as a fly.

Hermione set her brow in determination. She could have used Immobulus, but she wanted the thrill and challenge of just fighting the trees swinging braches to reach the knot that would grant her access to The Shrieking Shack.

Hermione sped quickly, ducking, dodging, and diving. Violent swinging branches crashed down all around her, and one even whipped across her back, while another caught her face with a stinging, invigorating blow. Hermione hurried. She jabbed the knot at the base of the tree.

Moments later she was in The Shrieking Shack. Hermione stood up, panting a little. Her jeans were dirty, her hat lost, and her thick hair was full of leaves and bits of grass. Her back stung, and knew there would be a welt across it at the very least. She tugged one of her gloves off and touched her cheek. Her fingers came back smeared with blood from where the Willow had slashed her across the face. She didn't care. Hermione felt more alive than she had for years.

She crept around The Shack, each old and abandoned thing bringing back vivid memories to her. She ran her hands along the walls, and swallowed hard. The peeling wallpaper was splattered with black and she knew that these were dried drops of blood—and there was plenty more than just drops. The spatters led inwards to thick ropes of powerfully spurted blood. The floorboards were darkened in one large area. It was here that Severus Snape had perished in The Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione dropped to her knees near the edge of the black stain. For a moment the outline of his body was there. Hermione quickly turned her face away from the gruesome scene, tears stinging at her closed eyes. She could hear his labored breathing as if he really was there once more in his dying moments. She could hear the gurgling as he choked on his blood.

"Stop it!" Hermione yelled, balling her fists. Her hair whipped around as she spun back, her eyes still closed. If she opened them she would be looking at that spot again…and she wasn't sure she could. But the Gryffindor in her spoke up, and pried her eyes open.

Snape was still laying there. His head had turned to the side, and he was gazing at her with such intensity it made a shiver trace through her. She had always noticed the burning way of his gaze. She had always known there was something behind those black eyes—more than darkness, and more than the simple outward appearance of a an ill-tempered Potion's Master.

"You…you have…" Snape struggled, his weakening voice a mere whisper. "Your mother's…"

Tears fell, trickling down Hermione's cheeks.

"Oh, Professor Snape-" Hermione cried. "I'm so sorry!"

Snape blinked at her, the intensity of his gaze beginning to waver, beginning to grow dull, and then…he sat up.

Hermione shrieked, and her shrill cry of horror echoed through the shack that was in this moment living up to its name.

"Miss. Granger," Snape said.

Hermione scrambled to her feet, tripped, and just crawled clumsily away as quickly as she could. Her Gryffindor bravery was currently called into question as she huddled herself into a corner, her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide.

"Don't carry on so," Snape sneered acidly. It took Hermione a moment to realize that he was no longer choking on his blood, nor was he bleeding at all, though his neck and the side of his pallid face was still smeared with it. The wound on his neck from Nagini's terrible bite was gaping. "You behave as though you've never seen a ghost, Miss Granger, and I know this to be incorrect."

Of course Hermione had seen the various Hogwart's ghosts, but this was quite a shock.

"Y-yes," Hermione answered, her voice smaller than she would like for it to be. "It's…actually, it's Mrs. Weasley now."

Snape's lip curled at this as though he had tasted soured milk.

"How…_unfortunate_ for you," He said, his voice soft, and his disdain apparent. "I see I was misled in the impression that you were a fairly bright young witch."

He shook his head slightly, his long, lank, hair partially matted with blood and swaying gently against his face with his movement.

Hermione dropped her gaze from his. His words hit home with her and she knew that he was right.

"Do I sense regret?"

Hermione remained silent, holding back her tears.

"I believe so, and it is an emotion I am quite adept at recognizing," Snape continued in that smooth, quiet, voice that Hermione had not heard for years. In secret she had always enjoyed the way his voice sounded—so deliberate, so calculated and controlled.

"It isn't any of your concern, Professor," Hermione said, standing, and regaining a bit of her boldness.

"Correct," Snape said curtly. "Nor is my home any of your business—I believe you are intruding."

Hermione looked around the dilapidated shack. Her stomach squirmed at the thought of having to live here with the state of the place—and with the black stain of one's own blood splattering and coating the wall and floor. Her heart sank deeply. Snape was gazing down at the dried black patch covering a good portion of the floor. Not only did Snape have to live with that, but with all of the memories connected to this place.

"Sir," Hermione began. "Are you…are you bound to this place?"

The thought was simply ridiculous to her. How could he be bound here after everything? Surely he was not.

"I am not bound to it, but where else would I go?" He was looking at her again with that gaze that kept its intensity even within the pale face of a ghost.

"You could pass on, couldn't you? Go to…the…er…afterlife or whatever lies beyond?" Hermione suggested, but Snape gave a small, bitter sounding laugh.

"I was told to come back," Snape said quietly, slowly advancing on Hermione. His black robes slipped across the floor but they made no sound. "That I had unfinished business, so I could not pass on as others may."

"It has been years!" Hermione exclaimed. "Have you not been able to take care of it in all this time?"

Snape was closer to her now, his eyes boring so intensely into her that she felt the urge to back away. Hermione did not. She remained rooted to her spot refusing to be moved.

"I was advised that I must come back and live my life—that I had not lived it—only as a man indentured to a Dark Lord, trapped by oaths, and bound by love. But what did I have to come back to? So Miss Granger, I remain."

Hermione was astounded. She motioned broadly with her arm, indicating the gloom and decay around them.

"So you chose this instead?" Her voice was raised an octave in disbelief. "Professor, we know what you've done for us, what you've given—we all know. Those memories you gave to Harry—Harry told everyone the truth. Sir, you're a hero! Harry even considered naming his son after you!"

"Oh," Snape sneered. "How…quaint. I suppose I should be grateful to the _Chosen One _that he had the mere thought to name his messy-haired offspring after me. What an _honor_ it would have been."

"Harry respects you," Hermione protested.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, snorting.

"I daresay—to use a Muggle expression that shall not be lost on either of us—Hell would freeze over before Potter showed one molecule of respect for me."

Hermione shook her head.

"Alright, let's not argue about Harry," She sighed. "You are a very stubborn man, aren't you? I should think so to choose being stuck as a ghost rather than living!"

"I don't mind. It is usually quite quiet and rather peaceful…until someone such as yourself comes blundering into my privacy." Snape glared down his hooked nose at her.

"You can't possibly want to stay here," Hermione insisted, her voice quiet, but unyielding. "You…you deserve better after everything that's happened…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes regarding him with a deep respect for the man he had been revealed to be.

Snape turned from her. He walked towards the wall sprayed with his death and Hermione saw that he meant to walk straight through it and disappear.

"Wait!" Hermione shrieked, hurrying after him.

Severus stopped, his hooked nose close enough to the wall that it was almost touching.

"Come back with me," Hermione whispered into the darkness. "Please, Sir…come back with me."

-x-


	2. The Attic

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Snape/Hermione

FOR: Nef :)

Prompt: Haunted

Haunted: A Snape/Hermione Fiction Part 2

Note: I don't know how many parts will be to this yet.

Snape had agreed to come back with Hermione, though he was not entirely sure why he had done so. She had mentioned that she was now a Weasley, specifically a Mrs. _Ronald_ Weasley. Snape was not particularly fond of this third of The Trio, and the thought of bunking down in the same vicinity as Ron did not improve Snape's mood. It was Hermione who had grinned, and mentioned that Snape might have fun 'haunting' Ron, as Snape had been one to single Ron and Harry out in class plenty of times: his dislike for the two Gryffindors had not been kept in the dark. Snape's lips had curled with a small hint of amusement. Toying with Ron now and then, and the fact that it had been Hermione who had suggested such a toying with her husband—both amused Snape.

Hermione turned to him when they stood upon the stoop. Her hand was fixed upon the door, and her eyes the color of cool mugs of ale turned upon him.

"It shouldn't be hard to get you past Ron," Hermione said. "Arthur and Harry rigged up a Muggle t.v. set to run on magic, and specifically to pick up Quidditch matches. Ron has become a complete vegetable since his father installed it," Hermione's annoyance was apparent. "He's probably passed out on the couch with food dribbled down his shirt."

Snape raised an eyebrow. There was more to Hermione's tone than just annoyance. If he was correct in his analyses—and he most always was—Hermione's voice was also prickled with resentment and laced with bitterness. He knew both well. Though he had never carried a soft-spot for Hermione he couldn't help but feel a bit troubled. He too had been a brilliant wizard who had given his life over to a foolish commitment and lived to regret it every day of his life. Though Ronald Weasley was no Dark Lord, and Hermione bore no Dark Mark, only the bonding magic of marriage, there were still similarities Snape could relate to. It was a shame, really.

"Miss Granger," Snape said smoothly. "Ronald Weasley does not notice the nose on his face. He did not once pay attention to me in Potion's class. I do not have high hopes that his attention span has improved. Even so, I may make myself unseen at will."

Snape held up his ghostly hand, and Hermione watched fascinated as his translucent hand began to fade, and vanish. The fade-vanish effect traveled up Snape's arm, and in an instant his entire person was unseen.

"Fantastic!" Hermione breathed, both impressed and enthralled.

The wheels in her mind were turning with questions, but now was not the time to blurt them out. A small smile shadowed her lips as she thought about thrusting her hand into the air just like the eager child she had once been, impatiently waiting on her professor's to acknowledge her readiness to learn, and please them with her knowledge. Snape had never been one to quite appreciate her study habits and quick answers, however. She easily remembered him upon many occasions calling her 'an insufferable know-it-all'. She had realized later in life that it was his way of pushing her to dig deeper than what was in her text book. He had not only recognized her mind—perhaps more so than her other professors had—but he had been capable of seeing an endless potential.

Hermione's small smile faltered a bit.

Yes, she had possessed such potential, and now she used it on domestic magic.

Hermione gazed at the spot where Snape's ghost had been. Her brows knitted together with sadness at what she had done to herself. How had she done this? She had always appreciated knowledge, learning, and the power of the mind and of magic. She had always drank these things in like a man desperate for water. Her eyes lingered on his spot a bit longer, and if she looked hard enough she could see a faint shimmer of Snape's energy—like the waves of heat coming off blacktop during a scorching summer day.

Hermione turned back to the door, and breathed deeply.

Snape followed her in. His look of disgust was unseen to her, but it was so strong he was surprised she could not feel it anyway.

Weasley was indeed sprawled out onto the couch. He was clad in a t-shirt that pulled too tightly around his expanding middle, and indeed there was food dripped down it. His lower half donned a pair of bright orange boxer shorts with the Chudley Cannon's logo imprinted all over them. Snape's stomach lurched. For a moment he was reminded of his own useless father, who had spent many evenings and weekends sprawled out on the dingy sofa in such a position, though there would have been a mass quantity of empty beer cans littering the floor as well.

Hermione sighed loudly. It was almost a snort of disdain. Hermione plucked up an empty bowl, and tossed it at Ron.

"Wake up!"

Ron snorted, and sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

"Mmm…bloody hell, 'Mione," Ron murmured, rubbing the spot on his head where the wooden bowl had made contact. "Way to wake a bloke up, innit?"

"It's alright, Ron. It landed on your head, so no harm done," Hermione walked behind the couch, her hips swaying with attitude and angry. She stomped up the stairs, her thick hair still decorated with leaves and twigs from her tussle with the Whomping Willow. Snape followed her soundlessly up the stairs.

She turned down a hallway and walked past one doorway, and then turned into the next. Snape stopped, unsure if he was to follow. He could see around the doorframe, and this was clearly Ron and Hermione's bedroom.

It was a neat room, no doubt thanks to Hermione. It was done in muted, calming colors. The quilt on the bed was a simple gray that reminded Snape of a lazy, rainy, day. The furniture in the room was a beautiful dark wood. Above the bed was a Gryffindor pennant, and in one corner, as if crowded away there and hardly wanted, was a glass case full of Cannon's memorabilia. One wall boasted a closet and full length mirror, while against the opposite wall leaned several bookcases overflowing with volumes. There were even towering stacks on the tops of the cases, and piled onto the desk.

Snape stood still and quiet, watching Hermione. She used a wordless spell, and from the ceiling a panel unlatched, and a ladder unfolded and dropped down.

"Professor?" Hermione hissed, waiting at the foot of the ladder.

Snape glided towards her.

"I'm here," He said softly, and made himself visible.

"Right," Hermione said, and started up the ladder. "I…I thought you could stay in the attic, if you don't mind. Of course, you don't have to stay here all the time, but it could be a place of your very own, you see."

Hermione climbed up the ladder, and Snape drifted upwards with her and met her at the top. Once Hermione was standing next to him in the attic, she removed her wand, and cast Lumos. The tip of her wand lit and she moved through the shadows of the attic, with Snape gliding along behind her. She stopped at the furthest wall, and removed a sticking charm from a blanket that had been spelled up to the rounded window to keep the light out.

Tonight it was only moonlight that filtered through the revealed window, like fingers, floating orbs of dust in their beams.

"I'll have to tidy up a bit," Hermione said, looking around the room. There were a few boxes that she and Ron had never bothered to unpack after they had married and moved here. There were a few contraptions Arthur had made, and Hermione had thought better to store them in the attic, rather than leave them around where Ron could potentially cause disaster with them. Some odd pieces of furniture were draped in sheets. Hermione knew that under one of them was a magical child's bed that Mrs. Weasley had run out and purchased last year when Hermione had thought she might've been pregnant. She had indeed not been, and the bed had been magicked away to be brought out when there was use for it.

Now there was use for it.

Hermione grabbed the blanket, and tossed it into a corner. Beneath it was an infants crib. The crib could change when spoken to—crib, basinet, or child's bed. Hermione spoke and the crib became a small bed decorated with fluffly pillows and cartoon broomsticks zooming back and forth along the comforter.

"How…darling," Snape commented flatly, and reached down with a long fingered hand to follow the path of one of the zipping broomsticks.

Hermione grinned.

"I suppose either of us could change it if you like…perhaps flying bats would be more suitable?"

Snape raised a thick eyebrow.

"Touché, Miss Granger."

Hermione cast another charm, extending the bed to a size more suitable for an adult. She left the broomsticks, however, finding them quite amusing.

Hermione Accio'd a few vials and bottles of potions, and a handful of rags. She flew around the room tossing away sheets that covered things, piling them all into a corner. After this she waved her wand, and large feathers protruded from the end, creating a duster. Hermione sighed loudly as she began to dust. She could have simplified by casting charms to clean the room quickly, but Snape understood why she did not. Sometimes doing things the Muggle way—just good old hard work—was simply a better out for one's frustrations. Yes, it was very clear by Hermione's brisk movements, the stomp of her feet, and the scowl upon her face that her mood was anything but pleasant. For a few moments those flying brooms upon the bed covers had seemed to cheer her, but now her thoughts must have gone back to Ron lying like a disgusting lump on the couch, Snape thought.

Snape watched her for a few moments, and then moved soundlessly towards the small bunch of bottles and vials that sat neatly upon the wooden floor beams next to the little pile of rags. There were no labels on the bottles, and Snape picked one up.

"You crafted these, Miss Granger?" Snape asked, holding one vial very close to the tip of his hooked nose, and peering through the glass and the transparent violet liquid.

"Yes," Hermione answered, dusting off an ugly armchair Harry had gifted Hermione and Ron with as a wedding present. "They're only cleaning potions. I make my own—they're far superior to the ones sold in Diagon Alley. Molly has some too. I gave her a basket of them for Christmas. She was delighted and she suggested I start my own line of products but…" Hermione trailed off, pressing her lips together as she continued to clean.

"I see," Said Snape. He pried the stopper from another bottle, this one containing a jet black liquid. He fanned his hand near the opening of the bottle to waft the scent towards him, curious, wondering if he could decipher all of the ingredients by scent alone.

After a few moments he could pick out most of them, but there was still one scent he could not place. He questioned Hermione on what this particular cleaner was used for. She explained it's uses and more—going into great detail about how she had formed the recipe for it, brewed it, and then continued to improve upon it.

"It still isn't perfect," Hermione admitted, and she seemed a bit disappointed in herself that she had not yet discovered that perfection. Snape found that he rather enjoyed their conversation. It had been years since he had spoken to another human being, and though he was largely a solitary individual, even the most reclusive hermit needs the occasional iota of socialization.

Snape began to help Hermione clean. He wasn't scrubbing quite as over-zealously as she was, however, driven by her emotions. The two of them had gone silent, and whatever her thoughts were, they must have been less than pleasant because it showed on her face as she cleaned relentlessly. Snape was sure she would scrub a hole into the old desk that she had dragged into a corner of the room for him.

Hours later Hermione was satisfied with their work. Her bushy hair was wild around her face, pieces of it clinging to her sweaty, flushed face.

"I…I feel a little better," Hermione panted, swiping a bit of hair away from her face. "Although, to be very honest, I still wouldn't mind beating Ron about the head with a pan."

She giggled a little at her confession.

"And I should be amused to see it," Snape added, plugging a stopper into the last vial of cleaning potion.

"'Mione!" Ron's voice called up, and Hermione groaned.

"Yes, Ronald?" Hermione answered, putting on a voice laced with false sweetness.

"What are you doing up there, in all of that dust?" Ron called, though is footsteps did not sound to climb the ladder.

"Getting away from you," Hermione mumbled under her breath, but she answered instead. "I was uh…just cleaning. The mood struck."

"Well, how about the mood for supper, then?" Ron inquired back. "It's dark, and we've had no supper yet—I'm hungry."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Right. I'll be there in a moment," Hermione waited until she heard Ron's retreating footsteps to rage. She let out a strangled howl of frustration. "I am not Molly Weasley!" She ranted to no one in particular, or perhaps to Snape, but he was sure she would have ranted whether he was hovering there or not.

Hermione paced back and forth the length of the attic a few times, stopped, and took a deep, shuddering breath. She seemed to be trying to school her angry expression into something a bit less raw, and to try and hold back her tears.

"I'm sorry," She said quietly, to Snape. "Make yourself at home. I…I need to feed Ron."

Hermione gave Snape a small, sad smile, and she turned and was gone quickly down the ladder, which she spelled back into place along with the latched trapped door once she was finished.

The attic was quiet now. Snape could only hear muffled sounds from downstairs.

He moved slowly around the room, taking his time to take in what was there. He and Hermione had moved a few odds and ends into a corner, and hung the blankets back over that pile. The old desk was mated with the ugly chair, there was the bed with the swooping broomsticks, an old trunk in another corner, another bookcase stuffed full. Snape did not need much—he was after all a ghost. Something about the attic seemed unexplainably homey, however.

Snape sat down upon the side of the bed. He watched the racing broomsticks zig, zag, swoop, and dive, and traced some of their paths with his fingers. The moonlight fell through the round window, passing through Snape's translucent form, seeming to make him glow. He closed his eyes, admitting to himself that he was glad he had followed Granger after all. The stench of his own death, and the foul memories of James Potter and a deadly werewolf, were left behind in The Shrieking Shack.

Haunting Ron and Hermione's attic…not in all his years would he have imagined such a thing.

Downstairs Hermione used magic to stir a boiling pot, and flip simmering sausages in a pan. In one fist was clutched her wand, and she imagined it was instead the heavy cast iron skillet that was currently popping grease. Ron was sitting at the kitchen table like a lump, still in his stained shirt and boxers, reading The Prophet, and waiting like the piggish man that he was on his dinner to be served to him. When and why had she become cowed? It was certainly not her way.

Suddenly Hermione wanted nothing more to do with this.

She finished her cooking spells hastily, and the boiled potatoes flung themselves onto a plate, unsoftened from their short cooking time, and the sausages met them, though they were undercooked. The plate zoomed for Ron's head, and hit him squarely in the back of it.

"Oof!" Ron was flung forward onto the table, his face planted in The Prophet, and the sausages and potatoes flung in his hair and all over the table.

"Your dinner is served," Hermione bit out.

-x-

Thanks so much to everyone who has fav'd and followed. Special shout out to those who took time to review Part 1: IND520, Very Small Prophet (was amused at your review), XxShawns Guardian AngelxX, Naz Chick, and Shorty653.

Please leave me reviews if you can! They are love! I really do appreciate your readings and reviews. Mwah!


	3. The Most Poignant Moments

Hermione and Ron argued into the night. Snape could hear their voices muffled through the floor beams of the attic. He lay on the bed with the zipping broomsticks, staring up at the ceiling joists. He listened to the rise and fall of angry voices. The lullaby was familiar to him, and recalled his own boyhood room, huddled in a darkened corner as the shouts pervaded the thin walls, or crying silently into a dingy, moth-eaten blanket as the night grew on and left him alone with the refrain of his parents hatred. He cast Muffliato to silence the row below.

Snape's ghostly body could not feel the comfort of the bed he lay curled upon, but watching the brooms, tracing their paths with the intense darkness of his eyes, gave him a strange sense of calm. As a boy he had not been conditioned to comfort. The only bit he could recall was a worn, dirty, teddy bear but he had not been friends with it long—in a fit of rage one night his useless Muggle father had kicked it into the fireplace, and there had burned Snape's only friend and thread of comfort. The flames had quickly licked away Snape's tear-stained companion, and the fire had danced in the depths of little Severus' eyes—hard at even such a tender age.

For most of his life Snape had traveled dark and dangerous pathways with little reassurance, guided by a mad hope, and a pair of emerald eyes that had once made his battered heart bloom like a flower in her palm.

Snape continued to watch the broomsticks. He would have quite enjoyed this as a child...in fact if he were to be honest, he rather enjoyed it just now. There was something calming about it.

Down below there was no calm. Hermione shouted beneath a tear-streaked face, and Ron's eyes glittered too as he tried to meet Hermione's verbal blows, though she had always had more skill with words than he had. Hermione blinked her tears away, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Ron still had bits of potato in his copper colored hair.

"I don't understand why you hate me so," Ron said at last, his voice just above a whisper. The two stood across from one another, Ron slouched-shouldered, and Hermione in a defensive stance, as if ready to duel.

"You're too daft to realize what this is all about," Hermione answered, her voice unsteady with emotion. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. "And that's the reason you've grown to dislike me."

Ron pressed his lips together, his eyebrows drawing together and upwards.

"Blimey, I don't hate you, 'Mione. I never could, don't you know that?" Ron sniffed loudly, and looked down at his feet for a moment, and then back to his wife. "After everything we've been through..."

"It was the same even then. You were jealous of Harry," Hermione said, squeezing her eyes closed as she remembered flashes of herself, Harry, and Ron, hiding behind her protective charms in a tent, taking turns with that damned locket, fighting amongst themselves...Ron leaving them.

Ron looked puzzled.

"What's Harry got to do with it?"

"He doesn't. It's you, Ron. You thought you were inferior to Harry, that I'd chose Harry over you. Now I've taken Harry's place."

Ron moved slowly towards the couch, and his large hands gripped the back of it. He looked down at his knuckles in shame, knowing that she was correct, but warring with himself to admit it.

Silence fell between them, thick and heavy as a boulder. Hermione gave a watery sniff, and went up the stairs to their bedroom.

Hermione curled up on their bed, and gazed at the rows of books crammed into her bookcases. The spines wavered and the names upon them blurred with her tears. She knew she had grown hateful and resentful to Ron, but he mirrored the same feeling back at her. They were both mirrors, endless mirrors, and she wondered if either of them would ever look away from their reflections.

She and Ron had not known it when they were impassioned teenagers, but they had chosen a life and a vow that had left them both trapped under one another.

Hermione fell asleep with an opened book as her pillow. When she awoke the next morning, the house was quiet, and Ron was gone to work at The Ministry. Hermione gave a small sigh to great another day of domestication. She sat up slowly like an unfurling leaf, and stretched her back. Her bushy hair was wild from sleep, and she smoothed it back to no avail. Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat for a few moments, just watching the morning light filter through the window. Her eyes rolled upwards towards the ceiling, wondering how her former professor had found his first night in the attic. Her cheeks heated with shame as she realized that he must have heard the entirety of the battle that had ensued last night.

"Merlin," Hermione whispered, rubbing one of her eyes.

Hermione's bare feet padded across the cool floor, and with an unspoken charm the door to the attic unlatched, and the ladder unrolled.

"Professor?" Hermione called, not wanting to climb up and interrupt his time if he were busy. She tilted her head to the side for a moment, wondering what a ghost might do in his spare time. Binns was still teaching, and the various Hogwarts ghosts still guarded their houses, or mingled with students. But what would Snape do? He was simply hidden away in an attic, like a secret.

"Miss Granger," His voice came back to her, soft, and smooth.

"Sir...may I?" She asked, tilting her head upwards, and setting her foot upon the first rung of the later.

"If you must," Snape replied.

Hermione climbed the ladder. Snape stood with his back to her. He was gazing out the round attic window, and the sun was shining through him. He did not move, though he surely heard her footsteps as she approached him. Hermione stopped a few feet away, and fiddled with her hands a bit.

"Sir...are you alright?"

Snape turned to her, his lips curled up at the corners.

"I am deceased, Miss Granger," He moved closer to her, and for a moment her mind flashed back to him lying in a pool of blood, his mouth overflowing with it, gurgling, choking—but he was not. He was merely standing before her, watching with those incomparable eyes.

"Therefore, I believe..." Snape continued silkily. "That your question is invalid."

Hermione nodded mutely, her eyes moving slowly from his, over his face with its familiar large, hooked nose, over the carved cheekbones, angular jaw, sneering lips, and further. Her eyes moved past his pointed chin, and came to rest upon the gash and bite wounding his slender neck. Her trembling fingers reached to touch the wounds, but they simply brushed through him. Hermione gasped when she realized her mistake, and her hand jerked away as if she had dared to touch a teapot burning hotly upon the stove.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly, and dropped her hands to her sides. "I—er-how was your first night, Professor?" Hermione bit her lip, and glanced down at her naked toes.

"It was..." Snape paused, as he searched for the correct word. "Memorable."

Hermione stayed quiet, fidgeting a bit, and glancing everywhere but at Snape, who was still watching her curiously.

"If you...heard anything last night—I'm sorry. Ron and I just had a disagreement."

"Of course," Snape said curtly, as if it were of no consequence to him. "And where might Mr. Weasley be now?" Snape glided away from Hermione, back towards the window. His hand for a moment caressed one of the windowpanes. He glanced down onto the street below, watching children who were too young to attend Hogwarts, playing in the autumn leaves.

"He's gone to work at The Ministry," Hermione answered, watching Snape float from the window, and touch the back of the repulsive chair that was seated at his desk.

"And what of you, Miss Granger?" Snape looked over his shoulder at her, his blood clotted hair framing his face like knotted curtains.

Hermione motioned to their surrounding area.

"I'm here."

"Indeed."

"I don't work. Ron...thinks that as a man, he should take care of me," Hermione knotted strands of her thick hair around her fingers, and her voice was merely a whisper when she spoke again. "I thought it was sweet, at first."

Snape had drifted towards the bookshelf, and he drew his fingers gently across the lined spines. He saw Hermione from the corner of his eye, and he heard her small sniff.

"Miss Granger, have you read each of these volumes?" Snape continued to walk his fingers over the names of various magical and Muggle books.

"I...yes," Hermione's cheeks warmed with color. "I've read every book in the house, several times."

Snape had not expected a different answer. Hermione had been a child with a mind hungry for learning, and one with a mind such as hers did not simply grow out of such thirst for knowledge. Severus' own mind was similar, and he had found himself through his years spent haunting The Shrieking Shack, that above all else he would have liked to have had at least one good book to have passed the lonely hours by. Snape plucked a small book from the shelf.

"I read this book my fifteenth summer," Snape said, holding the book up so Hermione could see the cover.

"The Great Gatsby!" She exclaimed, her tears momentarily forgotten, her interest piqued. "It's simply brilliant." Hermione crossed over to Snape, and took the book from his hands, smiling down at the cover. "What did you think of it, if you care to share, Sir?"

She and Snape sat down upon the wooden beams, and moved into a discussion of "The Great Gatsby" which last them for hours. Hermione flipped to various passages, and read them aloud, and she and Snape dissected them as if they were unraveling the riddles to complex spell-work. Hermione had not had such intellectual conversations with anyone for a quite a long time. She was hard pressed to find another witch or wizard who shared her hunger for books, and especially not one who was so familiar with classical Muggle authors as well as magical. Hermione was simply delighted, and she might have forgotten for some time that she disliked the life she had made for herself.

Hermione's hair fell over her shoulders as she tipped her head down to read another passage. Snape sat across from her, his chin propped in his hands, listening intently.

"I began to like New York," Hermione read. "The racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness."

Hermione's tongue dashed out to wet her lips, and she continued.

"At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others — poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner — young clerks in the dusk," Hermione paused, staring down at the words, her voice growing quiet. "Wasting the most poignant moments of night...and _life_."

Hermione sat the book down upon the floor between herself and Snape. Both of them were silent, and Hermione's gaze remained downwards, upon the typewritten pages. A large lump seemed to have invaded her throat at the last few words. _Wasting the most poignant moments of...life. _Hermione closed her eyes tight against her tears, willing them away. She was a strong woman, but the words haunted her.

"My mother..." Snape said very quietly, his voice coming through to her as she sat with her head bowed, and eyes closed. He paused so long that she thought he had perhaps vanished, and left her sitting there alone, but Hermione did not wish to look up and find more empty spaces. At last he continued, as if he had ended some long and silent debate with himself about whether or not to go on. "My mother was a brilliant witch. She was very talented. Despite a strict pureblood upbringing she harbored a secret attraction to Muggle men. Perhaps it was because she was so forbidden to interact with them...however she did not head such advice. She met Muggle men in secret whenever she could. She frequented Muggle pubs, her favorite being located next to a belching textile mill in a dirty little scrap of a town called Cokeworth. It was by one of these seedy mill workers she became withchild."

Hermione slowly raised her head. Her hair fell away from her face, and her tears momentarily dried, as she listen to Snape speak in a soft, still, voice.

"She was unmarried, and her parents were furious...even more so when the casting from their wands revealed the tainted blood of the child within. They banished her, disowned her, and threatened death upon herself and child should she ever return. Having nowhere to go, she returned to the filthy city with the pub and the mill-workers, and set out to convince him to wed her. He fought her off claiming the child was not his, until it was born with the mark of an unmistakable heirloom," Snape tapped the side of his nose, indicating.

"Do you see, Miss Granger? She was a brilliant witch, my mother. Her mind was once like yours before the bitterness and despair overtook her completely. It was the result of her choices which trapped her..._wasting the most poignant moments of her life."_

Hermione nodded, and gave a great, watery sniff.

"I'm so sorry," She said, wiping at her face and eyes.

Snape said nothing, he just watched her, his face unreadable.

"But something good did come of it," She said, looking up at him with a small smile. "She gave us you, and you've become quite the hero after all."

Hermione smiled at him as her tears began to dry, but his dark eyes glittered maliciously back at her, his thick eyebrows drawn downwards.

"I am no hero!" Snape snapped, and he spun upwards and away from her, returning to a rigid stance in front of the rounded window, his back towards her.

"I'm afraid you rather are," Hermione continued. "We know what you did for Harry—for all of us-"

"You overestimate my capacity to care, Miss Granger," Snape snipped, still keeping his back towards her, his eyes cast down upon the children still frolicking and rolling in the leaves.

Hermione picked up the book, and stood. She drew her hand gently over the cover, knowing he had used it to distract her from her dark thoughts earlier. She looked at the back of him, his slight frame made grander in his billowing robes, bat-like and dark but he was not a dark man.

"No, Sir," Hermione said. "I believe you underestimate it."

-x-

_Quote from "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald, chapter 3. _

_Thanks sooo much for everyone who has followed, and fav'd. You all are really amazing and I'm so encouraged at your feedback._

_Shout out to those who were kind enough to review (love!)-amaris12345, untalentedartist, Aluryss, ShawnsGuardianAngel, OfLoveandChocolate, Guest (whoever you are ;) ) LittlebigmouthOKC, klo, notwritten, Sapphire Pen Master, NazChick, Moi, lovealan, megumisakura, IND520, and duj. Whew! Heh. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter._


	4. The Burrow

Hermione looked past herself in the mirror as she pinned her unruly hair up. Her eyes were puffy from crying once again. Sometimes their arguments were just ridiculous, and at times they seemed to occur at the worst moments. Hermione had not wanted to go to The Burrow on the heels of a row, but Molly had been planning this family dinner for quite sometime. It had taken some doing to work it around schedules, but finally Molly had found the perfect time and Hermione would never hear it if she did not show up. She would have rather stayed home and had the house to herself, maybe re-read Hogwarts: A History. One could never know too much history. But Hermione would be going, forced to put on a false smile, mingle with her family. She loved them all, but she was growing weary of being so fake.

Hermione sniffed, and slid a few more pins into her hair. She was never really satisfied with her busy locks, but it was good enough. She took a deep breath, and cast a charm to reduce her swollen eyes, and relieve their redness. She stared at herself in the mirror, looking completely normal, an unreal reflection.

"'Mione?" Ron's voice was quiet, and the thickness of it made it clear that he'd cried also. Hermione jumped at the surprise of him. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that he had shocked her with the one word.

"Yes?"

"M'Sorry," Ron muttered. "You...you look lovely."

"Thank you," Hermione said numbly, and smoothed her skirt with her clammy palms. She glanced at Ron.

He was staring down at his large feet, slump-shouldered, looking like a kicked puppy. For a moment Hermione's feelings surged towards him, rushing up inside of her, the need to comfort him and just hug him. She need to just touch and reconnect with him and everything would be fine. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry anymore. She was sick and tired of crying. She just knew she was lying to herself. Holding Ron would not change his mind about her going to work, and she would still be at home, feeling that she was wasting away. She had been the most brilliant witch in her class, and she was nothing now. Sometimes Hermione feared that her mind would just shrivel up, and that scared her more than almost anything.

She brushed past Ron who was still sulking in the doorway that led out from the bathroom, and into the hallway.

"Are you ready?" Ron asked, brushing errant red hair back from his forehead.

Hermione glanced upwards, her eyes trying to look through the ceiling. For a crazy moment she contemplated just running into their bedroom, casting wards to lock Ron out, and climbing the roll-down stairs to the attic and just staying there with Snape. There were so many more books they could discuss, and she wouldn't have to listen to Molly fuss over her grandchildren, and ask Hermione uncomfortable questions about when there would be more—or Fleur and Bill looking so madly in love—or Ginny and Harry looking like the most perfect couple. Hermione bunched her hands into fists, and then uncurled them, flexing them to try and calm herself.

"Yes," She said, and she and Ron went to the floo, and moments later they were engulfed in the sea of people swimming around The Burrow.

Hermione had barely time enough brush the excess powder off of her clothing, before she was wrapped up in a hug from Molly.

"Oh, dear!" Molly chimed happily. "So good to see you!"

Hermione forced a smile, and patted Molly's back in a way she hoped was convincing enough. Molly at last let go of her, and hurried over to Ron.

"I see you're taking good care of him!" Molly grinned, and gave a pat to Ron's forming belly. Hermione and Ron exchanged awkward glances that seemed to go unnoticed by Molly.

"'Mione!" A little voice exclaimed, and before Hermione could reply, the boy had launched himself at her, and was wrapped around her legs in a tight hug.

"James Potter!" Hermione whisked the three-year-old into her arms, and gave him a good tickle. "You messy-haired boy, you!"

James giggled and wiggled, flailing around as she tickled his sides. It was the first time Hermione had genuinely smiled for days, if not longer. Hermione spun around with James, and then sat him to his feet, and placed a kiss atop the shaggy head of her nephew and godson. He wobbled around on unsteady legs from his spin, still giggling. James was a happy child, one who loved his Uncle George's tricks, and a good deal of mischief as well.

"Mum's wanted to talk wiff you!" James said to Hermione, bouncing excitedly on his feet. He took Hermione's hand, and tugged.

"Right, I'm coming!"

Hermione followed James' lead until they reached Ginny, who was sitting on the sofa, watching George demonstrate one of his newest products that would soon line the shelf of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"Mum, Mum!" James shouted. "I brought Aunt 'Mione!"

"Good boy," Ginny smiled, and she reached over and mussed James' hair.

James climbed into George's lap, and Ginny stood. She took Hermione's hand, and led her through the Burrow and up the stairs, to her old room. Ginny closed the door, and she and Hermione were left in quietness.

"I've only told Harry," Ginny said, moving across the room to sit down on the edge of her old bed.

Ginny's dark red hair was pulled back, her dimples showing as she smiled, and she was simply glowing. Hermione wished she had some good news to share with Ginny, but she had only the woes of her marriage with Ron to share...though she could tell Ginny about Snape. Hermione sat down next to Ginny, and immediately decided she wouldn't talk about Snape. She had the desire to keep this knowledge all to herself, at least for now. If she told Ginny it could get back to Ron, and Ron would certainly never approve of Snape's ghost living in their attic. Well, Ron could not dictate all of her life, or Snape's afterlife, and Hermione enjoyed his company and intelligent conversation. She needed something, or else she supposed she would go mad soon. No, Snape was her secret.

"What is it, Ginny?" Hermione tucked a chunk of thick hair behind her ear.

"James is going to have a little brother, or sister," Ginny said excitedly, and she took Hermione's hand, and pressed it to her belly. "I'm not far along yet, but isn't it exciting? I hope it's a girl this time. I don't want to be like Mum and have six boys before getting to the good stuff!" Ginny joked.

"That's...that's wonderful, Gin!" Hermione forced a smile.

Well, perhaps this would give Molly something to focus on other than fussing about when Hermione would give Ron a little red-haired heir.

"Do you have names yet?"

Ginny nodded enthusiastically.

"Lily Luna for a girl, and Albus Severus for a boy."

Hermione winced.

"They're...er...well honestly, they sound a bit clunky, don't you think?" Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ginny.

"I couldn't think of anything better to call my next child—he or she will be named after great wizards or witches. Harry chose them, and I think they're splendid. We can shorten Albus Severus to Al, anyway."

Hermione nodded. She and Ron had once talked about baby names, when things were better between them. It caused a lump to form in Hermione's throat. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, casting her eyes downwards at it, as if it were suddenly very interesting.

"When are you and Ron...?"

_Oh, here it is. _Hermione scrunched up her nose.

"I mean—wouldn't it be wonderful to have our children grow up together?" Ginny continued, looking wistful.

"Um...of course. We're trying, it's just...not a good time, I suppose," Hermione finished awkwardly. "Anyway, that's wonderful news about little Lily, or Al, congratulations to you and Harry. You're both wonderful parents."

Hermione stood, not having the heart to talk about her marriage problems with Ginny anymore. Her expectations and failures gnawed at her stomach.

"I'm going to go back down. It's feeling a bit stuffy in here, don't you think?"

Hermione didn't give Ginny a chance to respond. She left the small room quickly, and hurried down the stairs. She glanced around at the various people, wanting to seek Harry, but she didn't see him or Ron. They were probably holed up somewhere catching up on Quidditch.

"Hermione, I'm going to take James outside and teach him how to play Gobstones," George gave Hermione a knowing look, as if feeling her need for escape. She didn't know how George caught on, but she was glad for it. "Why don't you come with?"

Hermione laid a hand on James' shoulder, and smiled down at him.

"I'd love to."

-x-

Ron sat quietly next to Harry in the kitchen. A plate of cream puffs was between them, and Ron was helping himself as he listened to Harry. Ron nodded now and then, trying to keep up with Harry's talk about the latest cute thing James had done, his work with The Ministry, and Quidditch. Harry had just finished going on about how Articus Bandersnatch, a Beater for the Chudley Cannons, had left the team. Apparently he had been offered a bigger contract with Puddlemore United to replace their beater, Peregrin Bywater who was out for the rest of the season with Dragon Pox.

"And _that_ means," Harry continued. "That the Cannons will call in their back-up Beater, Hart Hickenbottom. I've seen Hart play before, and he's quite brilliant. His execution is excellent, so I think the Cannons will come out alright. What d'you think, mate?"

Ron was lost in his own thoughts, staring at a wisp of Harry's messy hair that stuck up. He held a half-eaten cream puff in one hand.

"Er, Ron?"

"Hm, oh...right," Ron put the half of his cream puff down on the table, and rested his chin in his hand as he slumped over the table. He heaved a great sigh.

"Er, is something that matter?" Harry took a cream puff for himself.

"It's just..." Ron cast his gaze downwards to the table top, not wanting to meet Harry's eyes. "Hermione."

"Did she smash the telly again?" Harry's eyes widened. "Blimey. I hope it isn't too bad off. Your father can fix it again, right?"

"It isn't the telly, Harry."

Ron glanced over as Fleur and Percy entered the kitchen.

"I can't talk about it here," Ron said, nodding not so subtly in Percy and Fleur's direction.

"Right. We'll go to your Dad's shed." Harry popped the last bit of his cream puff into his mouth, and he and Ron relocated to Arthur's shed.

Ron puffed out a sigh of relief when the door was closed behind them. He sat down on his father's workbench, and twisted a spare piece of copper wire around his fingers.

"Marriage is hard, Harry," Ron said, finally.

"Not with Ginny," Harry said, poking at a bundle of plugs. "I just do what she says, and we're alright." Harry shrugged.

"Well, something's wrong with 'Mione. I just don't know what it could be! I go to work and put a roof over her head, and I do what a man is supposed to do."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"So, what does 'Mione do while you're working all day?"

Ron pulled a face, thinking.

"She er...uh...well, she keeps the house tidy," Ron shrugged.

Harry sat down on the workbench next to Ron, and put an arm around him companionably.

"I bet Hermione is just bored! She's smart, and lively, she probably needs something to do while you're out, and maybe her mood will improve!"

"Right! Well...she does have a lot of books."

Harry shook his head.

"She's probably read them all through ten times by now," Harry said.

Ron was flummoxed.

"Well, what do you think she could do?"

Harry rubbed his chin in thought before speaking again.

"Er, I'm not sure. When I have free time at home, it's spent chasing after James. He really keeps me occupied—Ron! That's it! Hermione needs a baby! That would take up all of her time and she wouldn't have a chance to be bored! I think 'Mione would be a terrific mother, and it's about time you caught up with me, isn't it?" Harry nudged Ron in the ribs with his elbow. "Ginny and I are on number two already."

"You're right, Harry. We've...tried but nothings happened so far. 'Mione even tried some fertility potions a few years back, but they must not have taken." Ron scratched his head.

Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Maybe Hermione isn't the one who needs the potion."

Ron frowned.

"What are you getting at, Harry?"

-x-

Hermione chased a giggling James back into The Burrow after about a million rounds of Gobstones. Hermione was not very good at it, and James thought the way George made her Gobstones spit at her each time one was knocked from the circle, was ingenious. James called the Gobstones "Throw-up Rocks".

"Phew!" Hermione brushed a few stray locks of hair from her face. "Does he _ever _get tired?" Hermione laughed, watching James run to Charlie, hug his legs, and demand to hear dragon stories.

"He doesn't, Hermione!" George grinned. "Just wait 'til you and Ronnykins have one!" George clapped her on the back, leaving a sticking note that said 'whack my back' with a flashing arrow pointing down to her rear end.

Hermione moved into the living room and noticed Ron and Harry glaring at one another from opposite ends of the room. Hermione rolled her eyes. She had learned very early on that Ron and Harry fought like a married couple, and that they always made up, and she would not place herself in the middle of their squabbles.

Ron crossed the room, and surprised Hermione by taking her hand.

"Let's go home, 'Mione. We've been here long enough to catch up with everyone."

Hermione nodded, actually agreeing with Ron this time.

The two said their goodbyes, and were soon back in their own home. Hermione bent to take her shoes off, and yelped when Ron's hand slapped her on the ass.

"Ron!" Hermione straightened up, and turned to face him with a look of shock on her face.

"There's a sticking note on your back," Ron explained, taking a couple of steps backwards.

"Don't joke, Ron," Hermione rubbed lightly at her stinging ass. It sent a shiver through her, and caused her cheeks to burn hotly. "I'm your wife aren't I? You needn't make up excuses to..."

Hermione and Ron ended up on the couch. Hermione's shirt was tossed over the t.v., her panties caught on the banister, and her skirt pushed up so that it had almost become a shirt. When Ron was like this, Hermione had trouble saying no to him, despite their difficulties and arguments. When she saw that spark of passion in his eyes, it just lit her up and made her feel alive, and her body screamed with need. Hermione demanded him to take her harder, and Ron did, until they both came with loud cries of completion. Hermione panted beneath Ron, her toes curled, feeling hot and wonderfully taken.

"That was wonderful, Ron. Sometimes I forget how good it can be. I wish I could see that passion burning in your eyes always, not just when we're making love. What makes that fire burn, Ron? There must be something. I wish I had that flame, too. It's so good to feel alive," Hermione reached up, and smoothed a bit of Ron's sticky red hair away from his sweaty forehead. A pang of guilt hit her about when he'd ended up with sausages and potatoes in his hair a few days ago.

"What are you thinking, Ron?" She asked, watching his eyes. She was sad to see that fire slowly fading.

"I'm hungry," Ron said, and he rolled off of her, and went to the kitchen.

Hermione lay on the couch staring up at the ceiling. Just like that, her wonderfully fulfilled feeling had vanished, leaving her feeling just as hollow and numb as before. Hermione sat up, and angrily punched a throw-pillow. She gathered her clothes, and headed upstairs to shower.

Meanwhile, Ron sat naked at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, and thinking about Harry's words. Ron would show him: he did not need any potion or magic to make a child with his wife.

-x-x-x-x-

Note: Sorry Snape wasn't in this one! More Snape in the next chapter, promise!

Thanks to all of you who have fav'd, followed, and reviewed. I hope none of you were in the path of hurricane Sandy. If you were, you're in my thoughts.

Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter: sky fairy starling, Inner-me-is-chaos, LittleBigmouthOKC, Moi, amaris12345, SGA, not written, Sassatelli, and megamisakura.

Reviews are awesome! I also do have a question for you all: Chapters, are they too short? Too long? Are they okay how they are? I'm just curious.


	5. Poltergeist

**AN: First off, I apologize that this update took so long. I've been busy, and I was a little stuck at one point. I hope you all enjoy. Also I apologize for the shortness of the chapter. Believe me I have many things planned for Snape and Hermione in this story. My next chapter will be better, I promise.  
**

Severus dark eyes peered downwards. He was standing in the round attic window, his hands laced behind his back. He was watching as Ron walked away from his home, leaving for work that morning. Above the fiery head were the rooftops of other houses, chimneys poking up like fingers against the gray morning sky. It looked like rain, and Snape looked forward to it. He had always found the sound of rain soothing whenever he had had enough spare time to stop and take note of it.

He turned on his heel at a knock the the attic door, and he swooped over to it.

"You may enter, Miss Granger," He said smoothly, and Hermione pushed the door open, her bushy head emerging.

"Good morning," She greeted.

Snape gave her a curt nod.

"How are you doing up here?" She asked.

"I have a friend," Snape said, motioning towards a join where a spiderweb hung. "Watching her weave for hours is simply _riveting."_

Hermione gave a nervous laugh. She took in his tight smile, and was unsure if this was his sarcastic wit showing, or if he truly found some sort of interest, or peace, in watching the spider. Severus sensed her nervousness, and put her at ease.

"I am quite cozy. I prefer the view here to the less comforting one back at the Shrieking Shack—the Jackson Pollock completed in shades of my death."

He was referring to the wild blood spatters.

"I'm very glad to hear that," Hermione smiled, her nervousness gone. "I didn't mean to bother you sir, it's only that I grow quite bored...and I really enjoyed discussing 'The Great Gatsby' with you. I have shelves full of books just waiting to be discussed...if you were interested."

Severus watched Hermione smooth the edge of her shirt, and he heard the beginning patters of rain against the roof.

"There is nothing more I would enjoy on a rainy day than to immerse myself in a good book, or a stimulating discussion. I trust you to provide both."

Severus was correct. Hermione supplied them with towers of books, Muggle and Magical, and they discussed together the ones Severus had read in his time. She was impressed with his knowledge, and spurred on by it, to match his opinions and translations just as fervently. Her mind reveled its use, and in its gain, as he opened to her his own thoughts among the words woven over pages. She was both eager, and in need to slow them to draw out their time. There would only be so many hours before Ron would return, and Hermione found that she harbored a seed of dread for it.

At last Hermione picked up thick book full of Shakespeare's works. Various bookmarks and ribbons protruded from the top, and she turned to one of them. She looked down at the pages with a rosy tint to her cheeks, and a look of love for the words that her small fingers traced. She looked up to Snape, who was waiting this time for her to start the delving into these pages, and the themes, topics, and thoughts that lie within, just waiting for the two of them to unravel them. Hermione remained silent, and Snape quietly arched a brow at her, wondering. He did not press, simply watched her from his vantage point—a downward gaze along the long ridge of his hooked nose. At last Hermione glanced up to him, seeming, her teeth gently raking her lower lip.

"Professor, I was wondering if you might read one of Shakespeare's sonnets to me?"

Severus could not remember having read to another person before he began reading and discussing literature with Miss Granger. His reading had always been silent, and to only himself. He gave her a small nod, and she slid the book between the small space separating them as they sat on the attic floor.

Severus picked on of her book marks, and opened to that passage. The poem was titled simply "Sonnet 30". Snape began.

_When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,  
And weep afresh love's long since canceled woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er  
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restored and sorrows end. _

Hermione closed her eyes, and listened to Snape's smooth and velvet voice trace intimately over and through each word. His inflections and pauses were..._sensual_. She found herself both calming, and coming alive with the sound of his voice wrapped around such perfectly penned verse. She knew that when she read these sonnets from now on, she would always hear them in the soft consuming voice that moved her in a way nothing else had for a very long time.

It took Hermione moments to realize that there was silence. She replayed the last two lines, in Snape's voice, through her mind before slowly opening her eyes.

_But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end._

The two of them remained silent as Hermione simply watched him. A pang rose inside of her, a longing that he should be more than his spirit—he should be living just as she was. After everything he had given, and had nothing in return, he deserved more than her attic. Tears prickled at Hermione's eyes. She pressed her lips together tightly to hold them back.

"Sir, you said you were given the chance to come back. Do you still have that option now?"

Snape's brows knitted together, and his lips drew downward into a frown.

"I believe so, but Miss Granger, I have made my decision. As I am now I cannot further damage others, or myself. I have made enough mistakes in my life, I do not need to continue it, only to find more sorrow."

Hermione leaned forward, and reached out automatically to rest her hand atop his. She remembered her mistake when her hand went through it along with the knee his hand was rested on. Hermione felt the cool wood grain of the floor beams, rather than warm flesh, beneath her palm.

"But you don't know it would be full of sorrow! There might be wonderful things in store for you! How can you just...just give up like that? It seems very contrary to your nature."

"Miss Granger, I do not believe in fairy tales. I do not believe anything _wonderful_ as you say, was ever meant to be written in the pages of my book. I am not giving up, I am simply choosing one option over another. As for my nature, what would you truly know of it? I would venture to say that I know my own nature better than you."

Hermione pressed her lips together.

She stood up with a sigh puffed through her nose, and wordlessly began the task of re-shelving the stacks of books. Ron would be home very soon. Hermione did not acknowledge Snape when he began to help her. When the were finished, she watched him float towards the bed, where he watched the broomsticks fly back and forth across the covers. Hermione had not re-shelved her volume of Shakespeare. Instead she held it pressed to her chest. She took a few steps forward, and gave a small smile when she saw that he had changed the zigzagging broomsticks. They had changed to blackbirds swooping and plunging, their wings outspread and their bodies drifting on unseen currents of air.

"Blackbirds?" She questioned.

"My mother kept a raven for her Familiar," he stated, pressing his ghostly fingers to the comforter. One of the birds stopped to land on his finger, and ruffled its wings. "She was a very old, and wise bird, and had been passed down to my mother from her father. She taught it to curse at my father."

"What happened to her...the bird?"

"My father killed her," Snape said coldly. "In front of us. He tossed her cage into the fireplace...with her—Eris-still in it."

Hermione's face drained of color at the thought of it.

"I'm sorry," She whispered.

-x-

Severus spent his night wandering around the house, and taking a peek at things. Of course this was Hermione and Ron's home, their things were private, but Snape was bored and he knew when to snoop, and when not to. He did not pry into anything too personal, merely had a look around. He had a look in the refrigerator, and sniffed the food for awhile, taking in the wonderful smells. Hermione seemed to be a good cook, and Snape found that it was a shame he was a ghost. He had never really appreciated food until he was dead, and then came back as a spirit, and no longer had need for it.

Just for fun he rearranged all the food in the refrigerator. He would have loved to see Ron's stumped face when he noticed—if he did. The boy had never seemed too bright, after all.

Snape looked through some of the bookcases in the sitting room, making sure to replace each perfectly in the place he had taken it from. Granger had kept her old school books, and he found that her margins were littered with notes, and markings, just as his own school books had been.

He moved through the house hearing the boards creek, and feeling the vacant shadows of 3am. Upstairs Weasley was snoring. Rain was tapping lightly against the window panes. Moonbeams feel ethereally across the floors. After a quick and rather boring tour of the sleeping home, Snape returned to the sitting room, and fumbled around with the magical telly, keeping the volume low. This late at night he couldn't get anything to come in but fuzz and static.

Snape froze when he heard footsteps on the stairs. They were heavy. They did not belong to Miss Granger.

Snape ducked behind the telly, making himself small.

A messy haired Weasley appeared at the bottom of the stairs, stretching his arms upwards, and yawning like a lion. Weasley passed through the sitting room, and went into the kitchen. Snape heard some confused grunting about where the beer was supposed to be, and he gave a small, pleased smirk, as he peaked around the telly.

Weasley came back into the sitting room, and sat down on the couch. The can in his hand hissed as he pulled the tab, and he made a face at the telly.

"Didn't think I left you on..." He mumlbed.

"Mr. Weasley..." Snape said silkily, still staying hidden. He just could not resist this opportunity.

Weasley jerked so hard he dropped his beer, spilling it all over his undershirt and boxers.

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and leaning forward to peer at the static filled t.v. "I must be...dreaming?"

Ron blinked at the t.v., unsure.

"That sounded just like...for a moment..." He bumbled, talking to himself.

"I assure you this is not a dream, Weasley. Fifty points from Gryffindor for being a slob."

Weasley bolted up from the couch, and tore up the stairs, hollering for his wife.

"'Mione, 'Mione!"

He blundered into the bedroom, frightening his wife from her sleep. Hermione sat upright in bed, her frizzy hair wild.

"Ronald! What in the name of Merlin and Morgana!"

"S-s-Snape..." Ron sputtered, eyes wide, pointing towards the stairs. "I heard SNAPE downstairs."

For a moment, Ron thought Hermione was going to laugh at him. She seemed to be at war with what expression wanted to appear on her face. She finally swung her legs out of bed, and moved over to him.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Ron. I hear all sorts of things late at night that aren't really there."

"Y-you do? But...I really think it was him. He docked points from Gryffindor!"

Hermione did chuckle.

"Whatever for?" She asked, as she moved past Ron, and headed down the stairs.

Ron turned on his heel, and followed her.

"For er...being a slob."

"Serves you right then," Hermione decreed. "Where did you hear him?"

"It sounded like he was coming from the telly," Ron swallowed hard, hanging back as Hermione approached the television.

"There's nothing here...except a wet stain on the floor, and a beer can," Hermione picked up the empty can, and cast a cleaning charm. "Just go back to bed, Ron. I'll be up in a moment."

Hermione went into the kitchen to toss the can away, and Ron retreated back to their bedroom. When she returned to the sitting room, Snape was hovering near the couch.

"Miss Granger," He began slowly, but she interrupted.

"You're a rascal!" She whispered, her eyes dancing with mirth.

"I apologize. I will do better to resist my urges to torment Mr. Weasley in the future."

Hermione moved to the stairs, and stopped a few steps up, giving Snape a very genuine smile, which oddly warmed him.

"Goodnight, Sever—Snape," Hermione amended, and vanished up the stairs.

-x-

**AN: Thanks to all of you lovely reviewers, and everyone who reads this story, makes me very happy. :) Sky fairy starling, SGA, Stephaim fan, Gyvir26, Sassatelli, megamisakura, and LittlebiggmouthOKC—Thank you all for your reviews. They always mean a lot to me.**


	6. Chapter 6 note

Hey guys, I just wanted to make a note to let everyone know I'm still working on this fic. I did not abandon it I swear. I just started working again, so I've been really busy, and the next chap is just going slow. Hang in there and it'll be up soon I'm hoping! Thank you.

-Jeri


	7. New Life

**A/N: Sorry I took so long on this...but it was worth it I hope. ;) All of you are so patient and kind with your reviews which help me so much. Thank you Nebelwand, Kittie Night, I M Sterling, Sapphire Pen Master, sky fairy starling, stephaim fan, megumisakura, not written, inner-me-is-chaos, short turtle, Sev's girl, LittleBigMouthOKC, gyvir26, OrlandSwitch, Sassetelli, NazChick, and everyone who has read, reviewed, fav'd, or followed, thanks so much. Very special thanks to Moi whose review got me jump started on this chapter. That review really meant a lot to me. Quotes are from ****Gone With The Wind**** by Margaret Mitchell. I own nothing. Now without further rambling...here's the chapter.**

Hermione tucked her hair back into a bandana, and went about cleaning the house a few hours after Ron had left for work. Of course she could do it quickly and easily with magic, but today she had chosen to do it Muggle style. This way more of her time would be taken up with something to do, though she realized with slouching shoulders, that such a line of thinking was pretty pathetic. Well, it needed to be done and Ron was certainly not the tidy one.

Snape had drifted down from the attic, and he was watching Hermione from around a corner. She looked frustrated, and he noted that she so often did lately. Though he had often been hard on Hermione, he had always believed in her intelligence. Though he didn't specifically care for his ex-student, he did hold a high respect for a brilliant mind, and so it actually burned him that she was here wasting her time _dusting_ of all things. Just like Snape's own mother, a brilliant witch, bent to the will of some piggish man and wasted away. Hermione had not become a shell yet like his mother eventually had. He found himself hoping that she never would—in fact after Lily's death he too had become a shell. It was no way to live life as though it were a slow, meandering death.

He continued to watch her, and an odd feeling began stir very deep inside of him. For a moment he was nine years old, gravel hard and cool beneath his bare feet, and he was concealed behind an overgrown bush. Through the leafy tangles and knots he watched two girls play, though he was only focused on one of them. He was a quiet boy, not well socialized, awkward, and nervous. He watched her because she was beautiful. Her eyes were like emerald sunshine. Her laughter made him feel warm inside. The way she fluttered down from her swing—it made his small dirty hands grip the branches, and his breath stick in his chest every time. They were the same; they shared magic.

Nine years old had long since past, and there was certainly no good reason why Severus should now be lurking around the corner as he had used to lurk, watching...taking in her every movement, the way her bushy hair spilled out from under the tied bandana, the flush and freckles sprayed over her nose and cheeks, the way she wielded a feather-duster as though hit were the Sword of Gryffindor.

Snape scowled. _Stop watching her._

It wasn't Lily, for Merlin's sake. It was Hermione. No, it _wasn't _Hermione. It was _Miss Granger._

Severus looked around the corner once more when he heard a 'pop' of someone having apparated nearby. The flash of read let him know exactly who it was: it was Mrs. Potter. That was Snape's cue to disappear back to the attic.

"Ginny," Hermione greeted, brushing dust bunnies off of her sweat pants. Hermione dropped her feather-duster when Ginny, who still managed to look brilliant in her clothing while pregnant—grabbed Hermione into a tight hug that left her nearly breathless. "It's a boy!" Ginny said, the grin and joy apparent in her voice even though Hermione couldn't see her face given their current position.

"Oh, wonderful," Hermione said, without as much enthusiasm as she would have liked.

Ginny didn't seem to notice.

"I was hoping for a girl this go," Ginny said, after she had released Hermione from her hug. "This better not be like Mum. I'm not having a dozen little blokes before I get my daughter!" Ginny laughed.

"Er...well, you look simply fantastic," Hermione now felt frumpy in her sweats, Muggle band t-shirt, and messy hair.

"Look, see for yourself!" Ginny urged, petting her belly. "Get your wand, I'll tell you the spell, and you can see a sort of picture of the baby!"

"I'm sure it's a boy if you say so," Hermione protested, but Ginny shoved her wand into Hermione's hand.

"Just use mine," Ginny pushed. "You just do this sort of movement with your wand-" Ginny demonstrated with an empty hand. "Over my tummy, and say 'revelare conceptum'."

Hermione repeated the incantation reluctantly. She did feel a bit bad about her attitude, really. She ought to feel happiness for Ginny.

The incantation caused a swirl of magic to rise gently upwards from Ginny's rounded belly, and turn and weave in on itself until the shadowy picture of Harry and Ginny's second son was revealed. The baby's little legs were parted in a way that made it easy to tell that he certainly was a boy, and it seemed like he wanted to show off the evidence. His elbows were tucked up to his chest, and one hand rested behind his head, while the other was trying to be consumed by his mouth. Hermione couldn't help but be amazed at the magic and what it could show them—she could see each of the baby's tiny fingernails and toenails. She could see the filament like lashes, dark and long, and the movement of the baby's eyes behind his tissue paper eyelids. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was minute, and his cheeks moved as he tried to suck on his hand. Hermione felt a pang of longing blooming deep inside of her, but she extinguished it quickly when she thought of her rocky relationship with Ron.

The baby in the image moved, turning to face away from Hermione, and giving her a view of his pale little bottom. Hermione gave the wand a final looping gesture, and the picture vanished. She handed Ginny's wand back to her.

"He's beautiful," She said, looking down now at Ginny's belly, and wondering at the mist that clouded her eyes.

-x-

Ron threw his hood up over head, attempting to hide ever last shock of telling red hair as he did so. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, and then headed into Knockturn Alley. He had his mind set on an apothecary there. He feared he would be recognized at one of the less seedy locations, and he was embarrassed to be asking for the potion he needed—or it could have been Hermione that needed it, he told himself.

His boots crunched over loose stones, and he walked wide of the less than savory looking characters hanging around the streets, alleys, and shops. It almost made his skin crawl to be here, but he knew this was for a greater cause than his own comfort, so he was willing to pay the price of being creeped-out (just not the price of being recognized, or shamed).

Ron slipped into the Malfoy owned apothecary, and tried to pull off casual perusal of various bottles, boxes, and jars. He waited until the other customer who was in the shop, a tall gangly man with a black beard down to the center of his chest, had vacated the store with a brown bag of something tucked under his arm. Ron approached the counter slowly. He was grateful that he didn't recognize the girl behind the counter. Her hair was short, jet black, and razored and layered in a way that made it look like meaningful chaos. Her eyes were a brilliant, dazzling green, rimmed with long lashes, and her skin seemed to be porcelain and flawless. She was tall, and very thin, but any other attributes of her frame were hidden by her fashionably oversized sweater. Ron thought that the girl could have passed for a female version of Harry, which was a very bizarre thought to have at all. Ron gave his head a shake.

"Er...I need a..." Ron lowered his voice, despite being the only customer in the shop. "Fertility potion," he finished, glancing around nervously.

"For yourself, or a female?" She asked, piercing him with her intense gaze, and soft voice.

"F-for..." Ron stammered. "Both of us, I guess."

The girl pulled out a wand, it was long, black, and swishy.

"I could cast an examining charm. That would help to better pinpoint the...source of deficiency," She said, and her eyes seemed to glitter even more, her full lips curled into a small smirk. Ron was going quite red in the face.

"That's not necessary!" He quickly explained, clasping his hands defensively in front of his crotch region.

"What's this?" A too familiar voice drawled.

Ron's heart plummeted to the bottom of his toes.

A familiar blond head appeared out of the back. A clipboard floated near Malfoy's shoulder where a quill scribbled notes. Malfoy gave a wave of his hand, and the quill stopped. His pale and pointed face split into a devious grin of perfectly white teeth.

"A Weasley who can't spawn more Weasles? Oh, what a pity," Malfoy gave a click of his tongue in mock disappointment.

"Malfoy," Ron ground out between clenched teeth.

"I see you are as observant as ever, Weasley. Your intelligence never ceased to...disgust me with the lack thereof."

Malfoy swaggered forward, and stood arrogantly behind the counter. The black haired girl was looking at him with a devilish smirk, and something that looked like affection. Merlin, Ron thought, was it even possible for someone other than Malfoy's mum to feel affectionate towards him? He was a right bastard, and Ron couldn't imagine anyone tolerating him, let alone welcoming his company.

"Your face disgusts me," Ron retorted.

Malfoy laughed.

"Florian, dear, would you get the man his potions?" The way Draco looked at this woman—or man?-made it clear that there was some sort of relationship there. Thinking about Malfoy in a relationship with anyone, male or female, made Ron's skin crawl. For moments he was distracted watching Florian walk over to a counter—attempting to tell from the carry and stride if this person was male or female. Maybe the person was somewhere in the middle, just like the unisex name. Ron turned back to Malfoy, because he could feel that annoying steel gaze burning into him.

"Like what you see?" Malfoy sneered. "I almost feel sorry for you that you couldn't do any better than the likes of Granger. _Almost."_

Ron glared darkly at Malfoy.

"Least it's clear 'Mione's all woman," Ron jerked a thumb at Florian, who was still mixing potions. "What've you got there, some sort of he-she? Supposing that's the best _you _could do, considering you're Death Eater scum."

Malfoy flinched at that, and his face became fiery with anger, his eyes growing fierce and even harder than usual.

"_Former _Death Eater scum," Malfoy corrected coldly, choosing not to directly address the gender insult of his partner. "But for you, I could make an exception and work up some terrific dark magic to cure you of that wicked mouth. The Mudblood would probably thank me for it."

Ron's fist drew back, but just as it was about to fly forward and connect with Malfoy's pointed nose, Florian had came back to the counter with two small bottles.

"Since you wouldn't allow me to examine you," Florian stated with a coldness that was nearly identical to Malfoy's. "I've mixed two potions, one which will do for you, and one which will do for your lady. You're quite lucky I didn't slip in any poisons. There's a very nice one that would cause your testicles to become non-functioning after the successful impregnation of your woman. Some couples who only wish for a certain number of children prefer it to get right to the point of conceiving, and then neutering all in one fell swoop."

Ron let out a choked sound at her explanation, and eyed the bottles warily.

"If I find out you've put anything-"

"Don't worry, Weasley. I guarantee you the potions are quite pure, which is more than I can say for your future spawn."

Ron fished coins out of his pocket with a growl, paid for the potions, and stormed out of the apothecary.

-x-

Wouldn't Hermione be pleased? Ron thought, as he slipped the potions into their evening tea. They'd tried in the past to conceive, and obviously they hadn't been successful. They'd given up on trying for awhile, especially in light of their heightening arguments, but Ron was convinced that having this child was what Hermione needed. She must be disappointed in him that they were struggling so much in that area. He felt a bit guilty for not telling her outright about the potions, but he had a feeling that Hermione would never approve of using magic in such an intimate area of their life. It was one thing to use magic in day to day mundane life, or to defeat a Dark Lord, but it was completely different to use it in the matter of conceiving a child. No doubt Hermione would have all sorts of moral and ethical dilemmas and objections. It was better if she didn't know about the magical aide. After all, what would it hurt? They'd have their child, a new found bond, and things would get better between them.

Ron smiled as he brought in a tea tray, and sat down next to Hermione on the couch. She had managed to pick up a Muggle news channel on the rigged television, and was watching it intently.

"Tea?" Ron asked, picking up his own cup.

The label on the potions bottle had read that the potions was tasteless, and could be administered discretely in foods or beverages.

Hermione gave Ron a skeptical look.

"Since when have you made the tea?" She asked, more used to Ron's laziness and constant expectation of her to do certain 'womaly' chores such as tea-making. Just thinking of Ron's attitude made her angry, but she tried to stamp down on it, as he had seemed right now to have a moment of clarity which had given him the revelation that he was quite capable of making tea himself.

Hermione picked up her cup, and sipped it. Ron hoped that the sudden wave of relief washing through him didn't show on his face. The last thing he needed was for Hermione to grow suspicious of him, and with her keen sense of observation, it was quite likely if he didn't keep his cool.

Luckily for Ron, Hermione was too engaged in the newscast to really pay that much attention to him, or she would have certainly noticed his furtive glances at her. The newscast ended after about twenty minutes, and Hermione drank down the rest of her tea.

"Not bad," She surmised, and sat her empty cup down on the tray next to Ron's. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Ron. A pink tinge had crept over his face. "Ron, are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," He said, and turned to her with a hungry look in his eyes.

"...Oh," Hermione said, feeling caught off guard by his sudden undressing gaze. She wasn't really sure she wanted to have sex with her husband this evening, but then...a fire surged in her, heating her up down below in a sudden, pounding way that she hadn't felt since she was very young and first exploring her desires. "_Oh..." _Hermione said again, but this time the word was dragged out into a breathy gasp.

Their coupling took place right there on the couch, smelling of Ron's favorite brand of beer, the cushions slouching beneath them. It was demanding, and hard, and the heat between them felt like it was joining and verging on the edge of a massive explosion. Hermione couldn't stop herself shouting for Ron to take her harder, and Ron complied, until Hermione thought she might be driven through the cushions entirely, and even through the floor. They came together—Hermione with a scream and claws digging into Ron's fleshy shoulders, and Ron with a roar that could have outdone the Gryffindor Lion himself. Both of them were trembling as they came down, clutching to one another, and half falling off of the couch.

"Blimey..." Ron panted.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, her head spinning. It had been ages since their sex had been so furious like that—even angry sex after a fight didn't touch what they had just done.

Hermione looked up into Ron's face, studying him, hoping to find love there that she felt had faded away long ago. Instead she saw him looking predictably sated, but unpredictably smug. The delicious warm feeling of satisfaction and safety that had swaddled her momentarily began to ebb away. She wanted to claw at it and keep it wrapped around her, but it was fading just the same.

"Get off," Hermione said angrily, and her voice began to break with a swell of emotions. "Now."

Ron looked dumbstruck at her request. After all, they'd just had the most amazing sex...and she was _angry_ with him?

"Wipe that look off of your face!" Hermione shouted, tears beginning to fill her eyes, and she fled to the bathroom to sink down into the shower, letting the hot spray pound at her, and swirl down the drain.

-x-

"I'm sleeping up here tonight," Hermione said quietly, dragging a blanket and pillow behind her, and up into the attic. Snape regarded her down the hooked length of his nose. "Do you mind?"

Snape made a slow motion with his hands.

"It is your home. If your preference is to sleep here, I am hardly in the position to hinder you."

Severus floated a few feet above the floor, watching Hermione cross the wooden beams, and dump her pillow and blanket onto the bed she had transfigured for him. She curled up in a sitting position, and hugged the pillow to her. It was obvious that she'd been crying, and that she had showered as well. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and her hair was drying into wild, fuzzy, tendrils. Hermione flicked her hand, and changed the zooming broomsticks on the bed sheets into books that opened and closed, flapping their pages and covers like wings. Snape got the feeling that this was Hermione's way of seeking out some bit of comfort. Of course she would find it in her love for books, and knowledge. Somehow the simple gesture touched him.

He knew without asking what would cause her to drag herself up to the attic in such a state. It was that Weasley idiot. He wouldn't know how to treat a good woman even if he was given a book of instructions. Though Severus must admit, he had not done much better in his own life...but he had been fifteen, not a grown man like Weasley was. Severus had learned hard his mistakes, and he at least could be sure that nothing could ever cause him to fall out of love the way Hermione hinted that she and Ron had. Snape didn't enjoy thinking of such sappy things—but he knew it was true. He was a man of passion whether that passion surged forth in hate, or in love.

Oddly enough, his undying love for Lily seemed lately to be shifting. It wasn't dwindling, no never that, but it was..._sharing?_ No, that was quite ridiculous. It couldn't be possible. Anyway, this was _Granger._ She was a former student, and she wasn't Lily, after all. Though as Snape studied Granger sitting quietly on the bed, he knew that he was glad she wasn't Lily. There was an entirely refreshing feeling that stirred somewhere deep inside of him at that thought: and even more strangely, he didn't really feel the strong sense of betrayal that he was sure he should feel when thinking of anyone else in the same way he had once thought of Lily.

He found himself picturing what it might be like to move nearer to Granger, and sit on the bed across from her...and maybe touch her hand. He really wasn't a touchy person. He had hardly known any loving touches as a child, or young adult, and so those sort of touches were not really comfortable for him but...he had desired to touch Lily in such ways. She had made him want to show her...as awkward as it might be...and all Snape knew was that he wanted to touch Hermione's hand. He wondered if it would feel warm, or if it would feel cool, against his skin—but what skin? He was a ghost after all, he reminded himself, and the hard reality settled in on him and pushed back any other thoughts or strange feelings he might be developing for Granger.

The truth was that those sort of feelings were impossible. He was dead. She was living. End of story.

"Severus," Hermione whispered, forgetting to correct herself and use his last name.

Snape focused his black gaze on her, caught off his guard at her familiar use of his first name. He hardly let anyone call him Severus, though the fact he hadn't given her explicit permission was not bothering him as much as it might had someone else crossed that line. He thought that he liked the sound of his name on her lips.

"Yes?" He answered back just as quietly, considering addressing her by her first name as well, but he didn't say anything more.

"Would you mind reading something to me?"

"Of course," He said, still feeling oddly connected to her that her source of comfort and strength should be drawn from books. There was something endearing about it, though a bit sad at the same time, that she must resort to unfeeling pages instead of a caring husband who should have been looking for her to offer comfort. Weasley was quite the tosser, Snape though, as he selected a book and hovered over to the bed.

"Can you sit down?" Hermione asked in an unsure tone, her eyes turning to look at Severus, and really take in his features and expression.

"I can't, but I can come close," He stated, and he hovered over the bed in a sitting position, so close to the mattress that it might have appeared that he really was sitting. He was causing the book to float between them, letting it turn slowly end over end. "Are you ready?" He asked, and she nodded, and plucked the book from the air and opened it between them.

"Oh, not this one..." Hermione gave a small swallow, and sat the book aside, and Accio'd another one. Her face had gone a bit pink as she looked down at the cover. "I'm sure this sort of thing isn't what you're used to reading...but...if you don't want to, I'll understand."

Hermione opened the hard cover book between them, to pages which were marked with a slender red ribbon. The book was classic Muggle romance novel: _Gone With the Wind_.

Hermione was correct in her assumption that Snape did not often—actually he had never—read a romance novel. He did not wrinkle his nose, scowl, sneer, or protest in any fashion. He bent his ghostly head, and his black locks of hair fell forward, some of them still sadly tangled with blood from his death.

Severus read, and Hermione listened. On into the night his voice kept wrapping quietly around words, bringing the perfect inflection to them, wrapping Hermione in a blanket of attention that was like no other. Her eyes were closed as he spoke lines of romance, making the words sound alive, and real, and full of desire.

"_Well, my dear, take heart. Some day, I will kiss you and you will like it. But not now, so I beg you not to be too impatient." _

"_No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how." _

"_I'd cut up my heart for you to wear if you wanted it." _

"_You're so brutal to those who love you, Scarlett. You take their love and hold it over their heads like a whip." _

"_Say you'll marry me when I come back or, before God, I won't go. I'll stay around here and play a guitar under your window every night and sing at the top of my voice and compromise you, so you'll have to marry me to save your reputation." _

"_Her lips on his could tell him better than all her stumbling words." _

"_I want to make you faint. I will make you faint. You've had this coming to you for years. None of the fools you've known have kissed you like this - have they?"_

Hermione gave a little gasp when those last words left his lips.

"Say it again," She dared to whisper, eyes closed, chest constricted. She opened her eyes because she felt him watching her. His black eyes were upon her, heated, intense, and completely captivating. Her mouth was dry, throat tangled and aching, her hands clenched together in need to hear him speak like that again. Very slowly his lips moved to caress each word, as if his voice were making love to them.

"I want to make you faint," Severus whispered, watching Hermione's eyes with each word. He felt strangely aware, and attuned to the slightest details of her. Something inside of him seemed to be trembling, trying to resist, and yet needing to be let go of. He could hardly say the words, but they came, softly past his lips like gasp. "I _will_. Make. You. _Faint. _You have had this coming to you for _years_."

Hermione's breathing grew faster, her fingers white as they clutched at each other. Then they untangled, trembling, and she was reaching for Severus, her hand shaking, waiting. His ghostly hand rose slowly to meet hers, cold palm and fingers coming to rest against hers. Their splayed hands pressed to one another as if separated by a cool pane of glass.

"None of the _fools_ you have known..." So intensely his eyes burned, so deeply, as if she were naked and completely vulnerable beneath his eyes, soul to soul, tangling in an unspeakable fire. Her hand felt suddenly warm, from the smoke like quality of Severus' translucent form, the flesh tip of a nose, hooked, pressing out from the lifeless form—thick black eyebrows, a crease between them, flickering raven lashes, obsidian eyes that cut like the most jagged volcanic glass, high white cheekbones like the ridges of a proud mountain, dipping down into thin face, pointed chin, thin lips with the most expressive curves, imperfect teeth that held their own fantastic quality—uniquely Severus with each chip, and odd angle. His hair fell softly around his face, it was so fine and slightly greasy but it smelled of him—of potions, sarcasm, biting personality, courage, defiance, pride, and the blood of his sacrifice for love. Closer he leaned, both of them frozen and yet blindingly alive as his breath—his _warm breath—_washed over Hermione's quivering lips.

"Have kissed you like this..._have they_." It was not a question, but a statement, and it was punctuated as their lips met in the impossible kiss, and slender, strong arms wrapped around Hermione and pulled her into real, living warmth—the rise and fall of a his chest, and his heartbeat—_alive._


	8. NOTE

Hey guys. I'm just dropping a note to let you all know I didn't abandon you. New chapter is in progress and I'm going to try to have it up by Wednesday. Thanks for sticking with me.


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